


two questions

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Major Character Undeath, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: After the destruction of Sunnydale, Giles helps put Anya back together. (In more ways than one.)
Relationships: Rupert Giles/Anya Jenkins
Comments: 14
Kudos: 52





	two questions

She feels the Bringer’s sword as a _sting—_ it’s so strange, how a sword through the chest can hurt so much when your life is infinite, but a sword slicing you nearly in two feels almost like nothing at all—and then it’s all just blood and fire and ash, battle cries blending together into a dull roar, the terribly beige walls of Sunnydale High fading around the edges. All of it happens more slowly than she expects, and she doesn’t understand _why,_ at first, but then she feels the pressure of hands on her shoulders.

 _No,_ she thinks, because she knows how magic feels. She knows what this is, and she _doesn’t want it. No, please, I’m over, I’m done—_

Her flesh isn’t knitting itself back together, but the magic has placed her in a kind of stasis, stilled her in a moment between life and death. It _hurts_ when Rupert Giles lifts her into his arms, scooping her up in a bridal carry—but it doesn’t hurt enough to kill her. “Andrew, can you hold the fort?” he’s saying through gritted teeth, but he doesn’t seem to stick around for the answer.

What is he _doing here,_ Anya thinks. He’s not supposed to be here—

Giles rushes her out of the school and towards the school bus parked out front, holding her securely in his arms so that she doesn’t fall and splatter blood against the pavement or something. She thinks she can hear someone cry out her name, but everything that isn’t Giles is hard to make out; the only thing she’s _sure_ she can hear is his ragged breathing. He sits down with her in his lap, holding her very close. “Anya,” he says, and his voice is all business, “listen to what I’m saying, I know you can hear me. It’s a long shot, what I’m trying to do, but if you can hold out till the battle’s done, I can take you to Devon and they can heal you. You’re very close to death, but you’re not there _yet,_ all right?”

 _Rupert fucking Giles,_ Anya thinks, _if I was able to talk, I would be giving you what-for right about now._ She’s been a demon for a lot longer than she’s been human, but she does know enough to know that a sword slicing through a human woman’s torso should kill her within seconds. The only reason it _wouldn’t_ kill her would be a greater-or-equal magical sacrifice—and if she had been between life and death when he got to her, magically giving up a few years of his life to save her is pretty much the only plausible thing that Giles could have done.

And that’s at _best._ For all she knows, he cast a spell that took _ten_ years away from him. _Giles,_ she tries to say, but her mouth won’t move. _Giles—_ Her vision is fuzzing, everything turning into blobby blurs of color. She tries to fight unconsciousness; she’s too _furious_ at him to go under.

“Anya.” Giles’s voice is very soft. It takes her back to the last time his voice was full of that tenderness, that intimacy. _A severe case of amnesia or my impending death,_ she thinks sardonically, _that’s what it takes for him to speak gently to me._ “If you don’t want me to save you, I—” He swallows, hard. “I understand.”

Something tugs at Anya, then, in a way she’s not expecting.

“I may not like it,” says Giles, and his voice only shakes a tiny bit, “but I do understand it. Please don’t think that I’m taking this choice away from you.”

Xander would be begging her to live, Anya thinks. Xander would be making gorgeous promises about June weddings and oodles of children. Xander would be cradling her and sobbing and _pleading_ with her to live, and she isn’t sure whether she would acquiesce this time around. He’s proven, time and time again, that he can’t keep those promises made in the shadow of an apocalypse.

 _You wouldn’t make me any of those promises, would you, Giles,_ she thinks, and wishes she could see him. She thinks there’s probably something important hidden in that barely-readable face of his. _Definitely_ something important, she amends: he’s holding her _so_ gently, even though she knows from _personal_ experience that he’s strong enough to effortlessly dip her into a kiss.

She thinks of Giles, then, and she can feel the tenuous connection between them strengthening as she does. Sunny early mornings doing inventory in the Magic Box. Late nights with Giles collapsed, exhausted, in one of the chairs by the study area while Anya happily counts the money. Those rare, accidental moments where one of them is honest—where Giles lets something slip about his childhood, or something tumbles out about Anya’s time as a demon—and she can’t look at him because even weird, fragmented honesty is more than she’ll ever share with Xander. All of these piecemeal moments with Giles, memories that all felt so inconsequential when she was living them, but now, lined up, it almost seems like—

There’s a hubbub of muffled, miserable voices, and Anya feels someone reaching out to touch her. _“Don’t!”_ Giles barks, and his arms tighten around her. “This is a delicate situation and I need to _fully_ concentrate on keeping this spell going!”

Xander’s voice cuts through, garbled and tearful: _“Thank you, Giles, please just keep her alive—”_

Anya uses the moment that the spell flickers to huddle closer to Giles, turning her face into his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but she feels his fingers tangle in her hair, his palm resting against her head. It feels almost like a promise.

* * *

The clouds clear for a moment when she’s in Devon, lying on a newly-bloodied bedspread while panicked witches flutter around her. Xander is holding her hand, she realizes, and that’s wrong, that’s not who she needs. “Giles,” she tries to say, and it comes out strangled and hoarse, but she thinks the message gets across because Xander drops her hand and he looks _gutted._ She understands why, but she can’t bring herself to care, because the world blurs out and when it comes into focus it’s _Giles_ holding her hand, and she has to tell him, it’s so important, she has to tell him _please please don’t let go—_

* * *

“—Anya?”

Anya feels like she’s been run over by five trucks in succession. She blinks—dear god, even that hurts—and draws in a shuddering breath, then says, rasping, _“Ow.”_

“Eloquent as always,” says Giles, and gives her a wobbly little grin. “I’d ask how you’re feeling, but—”

“I was gonna die,” says Anya. Each word is an effort; she has to choose them carefully. “Why didn’t I?”

Giles’s grin flickers. Hesitantly, he says, “I doubled back for you on my way out, and—and you were bleeding out on the ground. You still…” He swallows. “You still had a pulse, somehow. Some miracle. I placed you in a sort of magical stasis and—”

“Why?”

“Why the stasis?”

“Don’t fucking dodge the question,” says Anya. She feels that cursing, in this instance, is _absolutely_ necessary—for emphasis, of course. “Why did you turn back?”

Giles gives her another weird little smile and says, “I’m afraid I’ll have to answer that question when you’re a bit better, Anya.”

Anya reaches out her hand and wiggles her fingers.

“Do you want Xander?” says Giles nervously. “The witches said you were asking for me, but—”

 _“Giles,”_ says Anya impatiently, and wiggles her fingers again.

With an almost comical amount of timidity for a man in his early fifties, Giles reaches over and takes Anya’s hand, looking down at it like he’s never held it before. (Which is obviously incorrect. He absolutely held her hand at _least_ once while the witches were working on knitting her back together.) “I must admit,” he says unsteadily, “I-I wasn’t quite expecting you to pull through.”

“Oh?”

“No,” says Giles. He gives her a weak smile that kind of looks like he’s about to cry. “I’m— _we’re_ not often this lucky.”

Anya rolls over so she’s lying on her side, facing him. He’s unshaven and rumpled, wearing the same—albeit bloodied—clothing from the battle with the First. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Softly, she says, “Are you okay?”

Giles makes a noise between a laugh and a sob. “Am _I_ okay,” he says. “Am _I—”_ He jerks his hand away from Anya’s, burying his face in his hands for a solid seven seconds. (Anya counts.) Then he raises his head again, eyes wet, and says, “Anya, you are far from out of the woods. Please don’t waste your energy worrying about anyone or anything that isn’t related to your good health.”

Anya lets out a huff, which sort of hurts, but _whatever._ “You’re not usually this nice to me,” she says. “It’s cause for worry.”

“And doesn’t _that_ make me feel better,” Giles mumbles.

“Oh—” Anya feels a rush of anxious misery. “I’m sorry, Giles, I—”

“I should go,” Giles is saying. “I-I don’t know why I’m even _here,_ I should—”

“Because I _need_ you,” says Anya, and she can’t keep the plaintive weepiness out of her voice. “I’m—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, just please don’t leave, Giles. _Please.”_

Giles looks at her with this helpless expression. Then he says, “Do you want me closer?”

 _“Yes,”_ sobs Anya, relieved beyond all measure, and he clambers onto the bed and lies down on top of the covers, facing her. He can’t really hug her without causing her extreme pain—hell, right now, even _breathing_ causes her extreme pain—but he can hold her hands, so he does that instead. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you, I-I just—I need someone here.”

“You could have Xander, you know,” says Giles quietly. “He’s been in Devon this whole time. He’s worried sick.”

“I don’t _want_ Xander,” says Anya, and it’s a mark of her vehemence that she speaks so fiercely even when she feels like she’s been run over by five trucks. Her hands tighten on Giles’s, and she wants him _closer,_ and she can’t examine that just yet because she is so, _so_ damnably tired. “You’re gonna stay, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Giles says, in that same quiet voice, and keeps looking at her with searching eyes. He’s _listening,_ she realizes. He’s waiting for her next instructions. She doesn’t know when he’s ever done _that_ around her before, but she can’t say she doesn’t enjoy it just a tiny bit.

“A-and when I wake up—?”

“I’ll be there.”

Anya manages a small smile and closes her eyes, trying her hardest to believe him.

* * *

She wakes up at midnight and finds Giles asleep, his face more relaxed than she’s ever actually seen him. His grip on her hands has loosened in his sleep, but when she moves towards him, he mumbles her name.

“Giles,” she whispers back. He doesn’t respond. _“Giles.”_ He’s asleep, she decides, probably still thinking about her due to the fact that they’re sharing a bed, and it’s only when she’s _certain_ that he won’t stir that she whispers, softly, “Rupert.”

It’s not to get his attention, this time. She just wants to say it. He’s been so _worried_ about her—now that she’s seeing him relaxed, she can compare that to the unshaven mess of a man she last saw and go _whoa, yikes, Giles._ And it’s really just his nature to worry, it’s a Watcher thing, plus she’s his business partner and the only reason he’s making a profit, but…she finds herself thinking about what it might have been like if it had been him instead of Xander, way back at the beginning.

Maybe it would have still been bad—she’d been fresh into humanity, after all, desperate for something to anchor her and make her feel like _somebody._ Maybe it wouldn’t have, though. Maybe she would have shown up in his apartment naked, and he’d given her that look of _oh, for Christ’s sake, Anya_ and handed her his bathrobe, and he’d have asked her with irritation why she was _really_ there. And the truth would have spilled out, as it always seemed to around him. Around Rupert.

“Rupert,” she says again, still barely a whisper, still trying out the name. She’s not ready to lay claim to it in daylight, but it’s easy to do so right now.

Giles stirs, sighs, tightens his grip on her hands. He blinks a few times, then opens his eyes all the way, looking blearily up at her. Voice rough and drowsy, he says, “All right?”

“Yeah.”

“You were saying my name.”

“You were _awake?”_ Anya feels _deeply_ embarrassed, and doesn’t know how to explain what she was thinking about without making their close proximity _very_ awkward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I don’t know.” She chews on her lip, and decides to throw out a less embarrassing—yet still revealing—truth. “I’m glad you’re here. Very glad.”

Giles seems a little confused by this. “I wouldn’t think you’d want _me_ here,” he says. “Wouldn’t it be Xander?”

“Why do you seem to think that it’s Xander I want in my bed?” says Anya, and _whoa there_ that was some _unfortunate_ phrasing. Even in the dark, she’s _sure_ she can see Giles blushing. “Oh, I just—you know what I mean,” she flounders, shocked at how nervous she is. It had felt so _easy_ to bare herself to Xander, years ago—to show up, get naked, and _know_ that she could win him over with her body and her straight-to-the-point logic. Anyanka always _could._ She’s not so sure if Anya can.

“I _do_ know what you mean,” says Giles almost carefully. “That’s rather my point. You don’t—” He clears his throat a little awkwardly, then says, “You have a, a history with Xander—”

“And I don’t with you?” Anya counters.

It takes Giles a moment to reply. Finally, he says, “I didn’t think that counted.”

“Well, if it doesn’t for _you—”_ begins Anya hotly.

“No, it _does_ for me, I just didn’t think it did for _you!”_

“Do you seriously think _that_ little of me?”

“I don’t think _little_ of you, I—” Giles breaks off, sounding strangely tearful. Then he says, “Xander’s young, a-and gentle. Caring. I-I don’t know how much help I can be at your bedside with all of my…baggage. I would hate to cause you further damage.”

“You’d _never,”_ says Anya desperately, gripping his hands as tightly as she possibly can. “And if this is your way of trying to politely bow out of being here, think again, mister! I’m _not_ letting you leave this time around, you come back more shut-off and repressed each time and I won’t _have_ it—”

“Anya, I don’t know why y-you’re clinging to me now,” says Giles, but it’s like the words they’re saying don’t match up with what they’re doing, because he’s moving closer, close enough that she can see—even in the dark—the tears in his eyes. “I can only assume that this is some sort of—of misplaced affection, after my saving your life—”

Rage, white-hot, flashes through Anya. “Is it _that hard_ to believe that I _care_ about you?” she shouts. This is a mistake. Her chest seizes up and she coughs up what is _definitely_ blood; most of it lands on Giles’s shirt. She doesn’t care. She’s hell-bent on making her point. “You stupid stuffy Watcher, what does it _take_ for you to notice when people want you in their lives! I’m _begging_ you to stay here with me and all you’re doing is trying to work out why I don’t want _Xander_ here—”

“Anya, shh-shh, Anya, don’t yell,” Giles pleads, tugging his hands away from hers to hold her face still.

“I will _so_ yell!” Anya shrieks, and coughs up more blood.

“You’re _hurting_ yourself, I don’t want—”

“Oh, so _you’re_ allowed to hurt yourself but I’m _not?”_ Now more stuff is bubbling up than just the blood. “You think I don’t know what you sacrificed to bring me back? You think I don’t know that you’ve lost _years_ of your life? I’ve been here for _centuries,_ Rupert, I’ve had my time, you have _no idea_ how little time you _already_ had on this earth and you shouldn’t be _squandering_ it on me, that’s _not—”_

Rupert places a hand over her mouth, eyes sharp like flint. _“Shut_ your mouth,” he says fiercely. “All right?”

Anya is beginning to feel a little lightheaded, but cares more about making her point than about possibly passing out in the middle of it. She attempts to bat his hand away, but he holds firm, removing it only when he seems sure that she won’t talk. Rookie move. She grabs his hands, then says, _“Rupert—”_

“Anya, _please,”_ says Rupert, and _his_ voice breaks in the middle. “Can’t we argue when you’re not bedridden? Even now, I’m still not sure you won’t take a turn for the worse and l-leave me.”

It’s the _me_ that catches her attention. Not the gentle-yet-distant patriarchal nature of _leave us—_ no, he brought her back for _him._ Up until now, she’d had no idea why he’d been willing to give up years of his life for her sake, but this feels like a deeply important clue.

“Please,” says Rupert again.

Anya already feels herself softening. Damn the man and his tear-filled eyes. “Okay,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry about all the blood.”

“Damn the blood, this shirt’s already ruined,” Rupert replies without any hesitation. He reaches up, one hand cupping her cheek, and she closes her eyes. Some hard, awful knot inside her loosens at his touch.

“Please don’t go away again,” she whispers. The exhaustion of her outburst is sinking in, dragging her back down into sleep. She’s grateful for the reprieve. “I miss you so much when you’re not here. Please don’t leave me.”

She’s all the way asleep before she can hear him reply.

* * *

Rupert leaves her, briefly, the next day—but it’s only because the witches are there to clean off the bloodied sheets and get Anya some newer, better clothing, and he wants to take this opportunity to change into some new clothing of his own. When he shows up again, he’s clean-shaven and clean in general, but all this does is cast a stark light on the furtive worry in his eyes. He still doesn’t seem to believe that she’s going to pull through.

“I’m okay,” says Anya when he sees her, and adds a little wave for good measure. “How’s everybody else?”

“Well, _most_ of everyone else has headed back to begin setting up a place for the Slayers to live,” says Rupert almost apologetically. (Anya tries to pretend this doesn’t sting, but it does. She knows if it was Buffy or Willow or Xander in her place, _everyone_ would be crammed into this tiny little cottage bedroom.) “Xander—he refuses to leave until he can see you’re all right. I think he’s a bit hurt that you want me here and not him.”

The unspoken question is still there—the one she’s been dodging, even in her own head. _Why is Rupert the one whose hand I’m holding?_ But Rupert still hasn’t answered _her_ question, so Anya tacitly ignores his, smiling sweetly and saying, “He can stay hurt, I’m not ready to see him yet. Have you brought me anything interesting?”

“I barely had enough time to _shower,”_ says Rupert, a tired laugh in his voice. “Do you _ever_ stop micromanaging?” He sits down on the edge of her bed, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He’s more tactile when she’s a bedridden invalid. She wants to be healing forever if it means he’ll allow things like this. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, you know,” says Anya, and grins back. “Half-dead.”

If he were Xander, she thinks, she would kiss him—they’re close enough that she _could,_ and there’s a warm intimacy to the moment. Sunlight shining in through the windows, white linen sheets free of blood for the first time in a _long_ while…but Rupert isn’t Xander, and if she _wanted_ to kiss him, she’d have to go about it _ridiculously_ slowly. Not that she’s making plans or anything. Not that she _ever_ thinks about kissing Rupert.

Rupert interrupts her train of thought by saying, “Do you want—I mean, is there anything interesting that you’d _like_ me to bring you?”

 _“May-_ be,” says Anya thoughtfully. “If there are moments where you have to duck out, which there _should_ be,” she fixes him with a reproving look, here, “because now that I’m getting better, I want to make sure that you’re not staying in here for days on end without showering or shaving or _eating.”_

“The witches brought in food,” protests Rupert, but it doesn’t have much bite to it.

Anya hesitates, then reaches up to touch _his_ face. For just a moment, his eyes flutter shut, and she wonders how often anyone touches him. Probably not a lot, lately. She doesn’t think he’s had anyone serious in his life since Olivia, and that was a good three years ago. “Take care of yourself, okay?” she says softly. “You mean a lot to me, and not just because I need company in my bedridden state. Xander would be here in a flash if company was _all_ I needed, Rupert. I need _you.”_

She feels like she has to spell _everything_ out for this idiotic man, but that’s definitely a thought she intends to keep to herself for the time being. _Especially_ since Rupert responds to her gentleness by letting his eyes flutter shut, turning his cheek towards her hand like a touch-starved cat. He lets out a shaking breath, then—without opening his eyes—says, “I don’t know how I managed to think on my feet the way I did, Anya. I don’t know how I possibly did it, only—I’ve lost those I—that is, I’ve lost those in my _care_ before, and I couldn’t do it again. Not again.”

“Caring about people is your job, isn’t it?” Anya says distantly.

“Quite the reverse,” says Rupert with a bitter laugh.

“Hmm,” says Anya. “Hate to tell you this, Rupert, but you’re probably not doing that great at the whole _not caring about people_ thing.” She strokes his cheek. “Also, I didn’t properly thank you for saving my life. I’m extremely miffed that you did it at the expense of yours—”

She stops, then, and looks more closely at him: Rupert hasn’t opened his eyes, but his face has softened like he’s fallen asleep. But no, his breath is steady but not rhythmic, his eyes are opening to look quizzically up at her. It’s just that he looks less _tense._ “You were saying?” he prompts, and almost smiles.

“Huh?” Anya’s focused on that little upwards curve to his mouth. Or maybe she’s just focused on his mouth. “I really can’t remember.”

“I believe you were telling me off for saving your life at my own expense,” says Rupert without hesitation. “A price, I would like to counter, that I am entirely willing to pay.”

Anya feels a little _jolt,_ mingled warmth and surprise. “You were listening,” she says wondrously.

“I do tend to do that,” Rupert replies, and he _does_ smile. A _real_ smile, the likes of which she hasn’t seen since—god, maybe it’s been _years_ since she’s seen him smile like that. Maybe she hasn’t seen him smile like that at all.

They both kind of remember at the same time that she’s still got her hand on his face. She wants to keep it there, but finds herself a little scared of how it will feel when he inevitably pulls away— _again—_ so she moves her hand back instead. “Rupert?” she says. She likes the name. She can’t remember when she started calling him _Rupert,_ but it feels right and it makes his eyes light up a little. “Are you—that is, you _are_ going to stick around till I get better, right?”

“If you need me here, I’m here,” Rupert agrees. Which isn’t _exactly_ what she asked from him, but it’s close enough that they can argue over the details in a week or two.

* * *

He does stay. Longer than she honestly expected him to, especially since healing from being a hair away from death takes a _frustratingly_ long time. Anya hates sitting still, and it’s pretty much all she does now; she’s learned the hard way that overexertion just prolongs the healing process. But Rupert sleeps on top of the covers and holds her hand, and in the morning he makes her lots of different weird breakfasts-in-bed, and he’ll read her the morning paper or a book from his childhood or (her personal favorite) one of the terrible romance novels that one of the novices smuggles up to her. It’s _deeply_ funny to watch him struggle through the sex scenes.

 _“She reached for his…”_ Rupert clears his throat, looking somewhat exhausted. _“His throbbing…_ fuck’s sake, Anya, if you laugh too hard and cough up more blood, I really _will_ stop reading this.”

“We are _well_ past the blood-coughing and you _know_ it!” Anya wheezes. “Keep going, Rupert—”

“Must you put me through this torture?”

“It makes me _feel better!”_ Anya wipes at her streaming eyes, beaming at him. “How can you possibly begrudge me that?”

“Christ,” says Rupert softly, shaking his head a little, but she smugly notices that he’s got a smile of his own. “All right. _She reached for—”_

“Oh, _skip_ that sentence, I’ve got the gist of it,” says Anya impatiently.

Rupert’s eyes dart across the page; he looks somewhat exasperated with the book. “This is wholly inaccurate in terms of werewolf mythos,” he informs the book, as though it should be held personally responsible. “You do realize that you’re perpetuating misinformation?”

“Yes, Rupert, because everyone reads these for education on the care and keeping of werewolves,” says Anya in a slightly strangled tone of voice. At this point, she’s secretly a little worried that she _will_ laugh too hard and cough up blood. The best part of Rupert reading things to her is _always_ when he gets distracted by and/or mad at a book.

Now Rupert’s just scanning the book, a small frown on his face.

“Oh my god,” says Anya. “Oh my god, are you actually _reading_ it?”

Rupert jumps a little, looking adorably caught out. “No!” he says, blushing harder than he did when reading the actual sex scenes. “No, I…I will have you know that I _fundamentally disagree_ with this book and its views on werewolf copulation!”

Anya laughs so hard that she almost falls off the bed.

The _almost_ is key, here, because when Rupert sees her tipping sideways, he half-lunges forward and catches her in his arms. And he does this with a kind of gentle strength, which means that her still-healing and frustratingly-fragile human body is stabilized but not hurt, and all of this would be greatly appreciated by Anya even _without_ the way he continues to hold her close. Her hands are braced against his chest. His arms are hugging her carefully to him. Their noses are touching.

Anya’s laughter has frozen in her throat, but she finds herself breathless anyway. She can feel herself starting to smile again—

Rupert’s breath hitches, his face shuttering. He sets her back against the pillows, picks up the book from the floor (it had fallen, Anya supposes distantly, in his haste to make sure _she_ didn’t), and begins to read again. He doesn’t sound quite as happy as before. “ _At her touch, they kissed again,”_ he reads, _“deeper and more ardently. It was an unskilled kiss, so desperate were they to be close to each other—”_

“You know Xander was like that?” says Anya suddenly.

Rupert stiffens. “Anya, please,” he says. There’s a strange, strained note to his voice that takes her back to those _other_ Magic Box days—the ones where she was bubbling over with enthusiasm, rambling about her boyfriend, and he’d get this shut-off look on his face like he wished he was anywhere but there.

“No, I—” Anya sighs, leaning back into the pillows. She can’t quite look at Rupert. _“He_ was like that,” she says. “With me. I was never like that with him. I could never…I had to be perfect for him, you know? He was a human boy, and I had to be a perfect human girl. That was the way it worked.”

Rupert’s quiet for so long that she’s half-afraid he’s gone back into himself—hiding from something she still can’t decipher, or maybe something that she’s still too afraid to name. But then she feels his fingers entwine with hers, and when she looks up, he’s looking steadily at her and not saying anything at all.

 _When you look at me, I know you see me,_ she thinks. If she kissed Rupert, they _would_ kiss like that—clumsy and desperate and pressing their bodies together like there’s no way they can possibly be close enough. She doesn’t entirely understand why they aren’t kissing now.

“Why _did_ you save my life?” she asks, and wills him to tell her the truth.

“You’re under my care,” says Rupert. His expression doesn’t flicker.

Fucking _Watchers,_ thinks Anya, and her heart aches. All of them are too damn good at lying.

* * *

The dressings that wrap themselves all the way up her torso have to be changed with not-so-regular regularity. Initially, it’s paramount that the witches do it, but now Anya’s torso is half-healed, and the rest of the healing doesn’t need magic to help it along. Anya asks for their help anyway; she doesn’t want to ask Rupert. She hasn’t seen the long, double-sided cut _herself;_ she’s not sure if she’s ready for _Rupert_ to see it when she doesn’t even know what it makes her look like.

Her body frustrates her. Anyanka never scarred, never aged, never got paper cuts or a bad cough or ugly-cried in the way that gets your face all blotchy. Anya does _all_ of those things, and _resents_ them, and further resents the idea of her body being permanently marred. Anyanka was perfect. Anya is not.

“Dear, I say this with all kindness,” says Miss Agathe very gently, “but our coven’s medicinal services are intended to be used solely for emergency care. We’re happy to let you recover here for as long as you need, but if this is a situation that your Rupert can resolve, we must politely ask that you turn your medical queries towards him.”

Anya gets distracted by the possessive (god, she _wants_ him to be hers, she wants his arms around her, she wants that feeling she gets when he holds her hands and the knot in her chest loosens) and almost misses the opportunity to say hastily, “I-I can always change the dressings myself!”

Miss Agathe, who has been treating Anya and is very used to Anya arguing with her, gives Anya a Look, then says, “If you’re at risk of doing something _that_ foolish, I will have to go to Rupert and explain the situation myself. Unless you’d prefer that your ex-fiancé—”

“Absolutely not,” says Anya immediately, which unfortunately resolves the situation then and there.

Rupert comes up about five minutes later, looking _extremely_ nervous. “Miss Agathe mentioned that you showed some reticence to the concept of my changing your dressings,” he says. “I-I know it isn’t exactly decorous, and I must apologize for that, but I can promise to treat the situation medically and respectfully.” He hesitates. “I’m also certain that Xander could—”

“Did Miss Agathe also mention how much I _don’t_ want Xander to do this?” says Anya tersely. “And anyway, this isn’t—it’s not about _decorum,_ Rupert, don’t be—” She doesn’t want to admit the truth to him, but knows that she kind of has to, otherwise he’ll feel bad and _she’ll_ feel bad and it’ll just be a snowball of bad on both sides. “I haven’t seen the way I look with the scar,” she says with some effort.

Rupert’s face softens. “Oh.”

“I don’t—” Anya sighs, ducking her head. “I don’t want you to look at me differently if the scar looks gross and terrible and doesn’t match my admittedly very pretty face,” she says to the bedspread. “I know Xander _will_ look at me differently, because he’s got a comparison point and he knew what I looked like pre-scar and he seemed to like it a _lot,_ if the sex was an indicator, and I think it should have been _you_ who knew what I looked like without the scar and now _all_ you’re gonna know is me _with_ the scar and I just, I looked _better_ before—”

Rupert holds up a hand, eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” he says, “did you just say you wanted me to know what your body looks like _without_ the scar on your _chest?”_

Anya looks directly up at him and holds his gaze. It’s the most she can manage to do.

Rupert’s breathing hitches again, in that same way it has every time they’ve gotten just a _little_ bit too close. Then he says, “Anya, Xander is waiting downstairs for you to get well enough to see him again. Whenever he sees me, he—he _begs_ me for any detail that might indicate when you’re ready to see him again.”

“Have you told him I don’t want to see him?” says Anya stiffly. She doesn’t understand why they’ve suddenly switched tracks, and _doesn’t_ like it.

“That’s not deterred him,” says Rupert with a bitter laugh. “He says he has things he needs to say to you, and I-I must admit, I think you should at least hear him out.”

“I’m sorry,” says Anya, infuriated, “you’re giving me your blessing to mend fences with _Xander?_ Rupert, what is _wrong_ with you?”

“I care greatly about my charges,” says Rupert, looking directly up into Anya’s eyes. “Xander has been grieving you since he saw you bleeding out on the bus. If he feels _anything_ close to how I felt when I saw you sliced through the middle on the floor—” And then he stops, and draws in a breath, and pulls back. She can _see_ him close off. “You should hear him out,” he says again. “He loves you.”

“I don’t _care!”_ Anya bursts out. “Rupert, he’s in his twenties, he doesn’t know what he wants, that’s _not_ what I want anymore! I was confused and scared and he was too and for a while that was _good_ but that’s _not—_ ” God, now she’s crying, _really_ crying, because she _knows_ what she wants but she doesn’t know how to get it. “I _don’t want to see him,”_ she wails. “It doesn’t matter _how_ much I love him if I don’t _trust_ him!”

Rupert is watching her cry with a shattered expression on his face. “Anya,” he says. He sounds close to tears himself.

“I want him to go _away,”_ Anya sobs. “I don’t want him waiting around like a kicked puppy! I’ve decided that Xander and I are done, Rupert, _why_ isn’t that enough for everyone _else_ in my life?” She feels his hand on her shoulder; she hits it away. “Leave me _alone!”_

A second too late, she realizes what she’s just said. A second after that, the door shuts quietly behind Rupert, leaving Anya entirely by herself.

The shock of the moment stops her tears. Suddenly, Anya doesn’t _care_ that she’s injured and mostly-bedridden; she _can’t_ let Rupert leave. She _won’t._ It was a stupid thing to say, no matter how mad she was, because he promised he would listen to her and now he’s doing just that. Ignoring literally every instinct telling her to stay in bed and keep resting, Anya pulls herself out of the tangled nest of blankets, forcing the door open and stumbling into the hallway.

Rupert is standing a few feet away, talking to someone. “—that you’ve been waiting a long time to see her, and that you’re—” he’s saying, but _whirls_ when he hears Anya’s bedroom door slam shut. _“Anya!”_ he says, and runs to her, catching her in his arms _just_ as her legs give way. “What the _fuck_ are you doing, you should _not_ be out of bed—”

“Ahn?” says Xander.

Anya sees him, then. He looks just as awful as Rupert did a few weeks ago. That old longing wells up in her— _he waited for me, he really does love me, it could be different this time if I tried just a little harder—_ but she can’t forget the thousands of different ways that Xander Harris just wasn’t ready for the same things she was. Loving him again will only open her up to yet another hurt—and she’s been sliced open too many times already. She can’t go through it again.

“Xander, I don’t want to see you,” she says, her voice level.

“We were—” Xander’s voice catches. “We were getting back together, Ahn. What happened?”

“We’re not _back together,_ Xander,” says Anya firmly. “We shared some nostalgic sex the night before the apocalypse. While I’m healing, I don’t want to have to add someone’s unrequited feelings for me to the things I have to think about, okay?” Something more honest is coming out, she thinks, and decides to pursue it: no editing, no human-y censorship. Just Anya. “If you can put your feelings for me aside, I’m happy to see you, but…if you’re here because you want to kiss and make up, I think you should go.”

Xander’s face has twisted in that ugly way it always does before he goes for the jugular, and Anya can’t understand why. What is there, now, that he can hold against her? But then, to her surprise, his eyes go to _Rupert._ “You don’t want to add someone’s _unrequited feelings_ to the list of things you have to think about, Anya?” he says with vitriol. “I think _you_ should take a good look at the people you’re letting into your room.”

Anya’s stomach twists. “Xander—” she begins.

“Giles is in love with you,” says Xander. “He _told_ me. He tried to _apologize_ to me for it.”

Rupert’s arms stiffen around her like he’s been hit—like _he’s_ been sliced through and opened up. “Rupert,” says Anya shakily, because everything about this man needs gentle handling and this is the _opposite of that,_ but she can already see his face shuttering and that light in his eyes dying out.

“Ahn, I may have feelings for you, but at least I have the decency to be _honest_ with you about them—”

“Oh, you call this decency?” Anya shouts, jerking herself out of Rupert’s arms. She has to brace herself against the wall for support, but she’s too angry to care. _“This?_ You have _no right_ to humiliate Rupert like that!”

“So now you’re sticking up for him?” Xander shoots back. “What’s the difference between him and me, huh? You don’t want either of us, Anya, you’re just too selfish to admit it!”

“Don’t you speak to her like that,” says Rupert coldly.

“Don’t _fucking_ talk to me, Giles!” Xander yells. “You’re trying to move in on my girlfriend!”

 _“Ex-girlfriend!”_ Anya screams. Her head is beginning to spin. _Not now, not now,_ she begs her body, _don’t you dare take me down now—_ “And he’s _not_ trying to move in on me, Xander, _I’m trying to move in on him!”_

The hallway goes very silent—or, oh, no, that’s just Anya finally passing out. _Oh, great,_ she thinks, and the last thing she feels is Rupert pulling her back up into his arms.

* * *

Anya stirs to find Rupert sitting in that stupid chair by her bed. When he sees that she’s awake, he hands her a glass of water and says, “The witches strenuously recommend that you stay in bed for the next few days.”

“Big whoop. Like that wasn’t gonna happen anyway.” Anya takes the glass and takes a sip, searching Rupert’s expression for _anything_ that might tell her what he’s thinking, but everything’s back behind that Watcher mask. “What happened with Xander?”

Rupert swallows hard, then says, “He’s waiting outside. He’s of the mind that he deserves an explanation.”

“He doesn’t deserve anything. He’s being an idiot.” Anya sniffles, resenting herself for being near tears over something as mind-meltingly stupid as this. She draws in a breath. “Rupert, I-I’ve been trying to go slow with you because I’m afraid th-that if I decide to go as fast as I did with Xander, you’ll pull away _just_ as fast. I know you think—god, I don’t know _what_ you think, but I get the sense that you think I’m still harboring feelings for Xander, or that some part of me still wants to be with Xander, or—”

But Rupert shakes his head. “I think you’d be better with Xander than me,” he says quietly. “It’s like I said—he’s young, he’s caring, he’s not…bogged down by a bloody history, or at least not to the extent that I am.”

“Not to the extent that _we are,”_ says Anya, and places the water glass on the bedside table so that she can take his hand. “Why do you think that our having shared experiences would be a _bad thing_ if we were to try and start a relationship?”

“There are more reasons than just that—”

“You’ve been _here_ for me.”

“Because you _asked_ me to!” Rupert burst out. “Xander’s the one who would have been at your bedside if you hadn’t _begged_ me to stay—”

“God, Rupert, why are you so hell-bent on torching even the _concept_ of us being happy together?” Anya snaps, and yanks her hand away, rolling onto her side so that her back is facing him. “If you want to leave, then _leave!_ You’re getting _damn_ good at it!”

There’s a knock on the door.

 _“XANDER HARRIS, IF YOU—”_ Anya shouts, and then coughs up more blood. _Great._ She feels Rupert’s hands on her shoulders and tries to shake them off, but he keeps them there. “Unrequited feelings have _no_ place in my recovery,” she hoarsely informs him. “And seeing as you _clearly_ don’t have any feelings for me, I think _you_ should leave too.”

Rupert’s hands hover on her shoulders for another moment. Then he says, “Why did you ask for me and not Xander?”

“Because I _love you,”_ Anya sobs, and that’s enough to make her start really crying. It’s just that she’s so _tired,_ and everyone around her is behaving like a _complete_ idiot, and she’s _sick_ of it and _sick_ in general and all she wants is for things between her and Rupert to feel actually okay. “I love you, and I want you to stay!”

Rupert’s hands are shaking.

“Okay, that’s _it,”_ snaps Xander, bursting in, and then—stops. Takes in the scene: Anya in tears, Rupert with his hands on her shoulders, both of them looking exhausted and sad. His eyes flit between them. His expression changes. “Oh, man,” he says softly. “I-I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Xander?” says Rupert tersely. “Leave.”

“No, I—” Xander swallows, eyes wet. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I thought Anya was trying to spite me. I thought _I_ was supposed to be in this room taking care of her. But I’m _not.”_

“Bloody good you’ve figured that out,” says Rupert shortly. “Now _leave.”_

But Anya manages to swallow down her tears, enough that she can sit up in bed and give Xander a small, sad smile. “Xander, we’re not a part of each other’s lives anymore,” she says. “It really is as simple as that.”

“Yeah,” says Xander, sounding hollowed-out and miserable. “Yeah, I—yeah. I should go.”

“Yeah,” Anya agrees, and watches him back out of the room and shut the door behind her. She turns to Rupert, then, and _he_ looks miserable, he looks like he thinks he’s done something wrong, and she whispers, “Rupert, _Rupert,”_ and pulls him down onto the bed with her, winding her arms around his neck.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck with a muffled sob; she tangles her fingers in his hair. “Anya, I’m sorry—”

“Shh-shh-shh,” Anya murmurs, and hides her own face in his hair, trying to regulate her breathing.

Rupert appears to be back to _not_ listening to her at all. He’s speaking in unsteady bursts in between the tears. “I love you, I-I didn’t mean to—I meant to make this _better,_ I only realized—I saw you bleeding out and all I could think w-was I should have _told_ you—”

Anya can’t take all of this in in the moment. There’s too much she’s feeling all at once. What matters right now is holding Rupert until both of them feel better, so she does that until the sun’s half gone and Rupert’s sobs have become the unsteady breathing of unrestful sleep. And then she tucks him under the covers, and kisses his hair, and closes her eyes, and tries to fall asleep herself, but all she can think about is Xander saying _I thought Anya was trying to spite me._

Vengeance is a funny thing, she thinks. She seems to be most efficient at it when she doesn’t really mean to do it.

* * *

Rupert wakes up just after sunset. He still looks all torn-up and tortured, which Anya finds herself feeling _extra_ mad at Xander for. This isn’t a man who does well with having secret feelings revealed, even if said feelings are welcomed with open arms. “I _am_ sorry,” he says heavily.

“For what?” says Anya simply.

“For—” Rupert swallows. “God, I don’t know. I just don’t want this all to end up with you hurt again.”

“You’ve been hurt too, Rupert,” says Anya, and can’t keep the wobble out of her voice at even the concept. “Too many times to count, if what I’ve heard from the children is any indication.”

“I worry that hurt has left me…irrevocably broken,” says Rupert quietly. “I feel you deserve someone more whole.”

Anya shakes her head. “Well, first of all, I don’t want anybody else,” she informs him, and because she needs to punctuate that statement with something to prove it, she kisses him—gentle at first, but then, god, then it hits her that she’s _kissing him,_ and her arms wrap around his neck and his mouth misses hers a little. They keep on colliding wrong, but wonder of wonders, she just can’t bring herself to _care,_ because she’s _kissing Rupert Giles—_

“Th-there was,” Rupert whispers between kisses, just as unwilling to stop kissing as Anya is, “there was a second part to that, wasn’t that?”

“I love you,” Anya whispers back. “That’s not the second part, by the way, I just love you.”

Rupert lets out something between a sob and a laugh—a joyful one, this time—and pulls back so that their noses are touching, just so he can say, “I love you too!”

“Oh, that’s _really_ great!” Anya informs him, and she’s laugh-crying too, a little bit. “I’m really glad!”

They kiss again. This one’s a little more graceful; they’re finding their rhythm, and the reality of being able to kiss Rupert all the time is finally sinking in for Anya. No need to get desperate, she thinks happily, I can kiss him _forever,_ and _whenever,_ and she breaks their kiss so that she can kiss his jaw and his neck. He shudders and pulls her closer.

“O-oh,” Anya realizes, looking up, “there _was_ a second part—” She kisses him again just because she can. “Rupert,” she says softly, “I’d rather have someone who can understand the days when I’m weird and sad than someone who’s doing one hundred percent okay. You bring the sunlight into my life _because_ you’re not whole. Neither am I. Neither of us are really gonna be young and idealistic, but that’s a _good_ thing, because that means we can build something strong. And real.”

Rupert is looking at her like she’s his moon and stars. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles, and she cuddles closer to continue kissing him. Just because she’s not desperate anymore doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to make up for a _hell_ of a lot of lost time.

* * *

In the morning, Rupert says ruefully, “We didn’t change your dressings,” and Anya swallows hard and does her best not to flinch at the concept of having to see a big, ugly scar on her body. But Rupert catches this, and kind of bumps his forehead against hers, and says very softly, “You _did_ say that you’d rather have someone who understands what it’s like not to be young and perfect, hmm? I’ve got scars like yours.”

Anya is so, _so_ afraid that he’ll change his mind when he sees her, but the warmth in his eyes is pretty hard to doubt. She manages a small nod in response.

“Brave Anya,” murmurs Rupert, and unbuttons her pajama top, sliding it down her shoulders. Carefully, he undoes the bandages, letting the gauze fall away; the wound isn’t bleeding anymore, but it does still need to be dressed.

Anya looks down, and there it is: a neat line through her chest, curving over her shoulder, ending at her stomach. She swallows, tears coming to her eyes as she looks down at what was once perfect, unmarred skin—

Rupert kisses her shoulder, a few centimeters off from the almost-a-scar. “Beautiful,” he says. Careful to avoid touching the injury, he takes her face in his hands and kisses her again, and he’s so tender and reverent that an overcome Anya has to break the kiss two seconds in. No one’s _ever_ kissed her like that. Skill and love all in one—

“It should have been you!” she bursts out. “I should have showed up in your apartment and asked for _you,_ Rupert, I wasted so much _time—”_

“It evens out, though, doesn’t it?” Rupert counters, giving her a crooked smile. “I gave a few years of my life up to steal us the time we deserve to have.”

“But those years should have been yours _too—”_

“Rotten years they were, Anya. If I’d kept them, the rest of my life would have been bereft of you.”

Anya leans forward and kisses him again, and it’s only a pointed twinge of pain that reminds her there’s still business to be attended to. “Bandages,” she says with some reluctance.

“Right,” Rupert agrees. “Really, this is sub-par medical care on my part.”

He’s oh-so-gentle as he dresses her wound, careful as he rebuttons her pajama top, tender as he takes her into his arms. She feels like some kind of a weight has been lifted—like maybe, this time, she’s been knitted back together for good.

“I love you,” she whispers. “Don’t go away.”

“Oh, Anya, _never,”_ Rupert whispers back, a tremble in his voice. “Never think that I will.”

“You’ve done it before, you know—”

“I know. And I can promise you now that I won’t ever do it again.”

Anya lets out a shaky breath and kisses him—once, twice, three times—until both of them are a little breathless. “I’m going to get better _really_ fast,” she informs him, “and then we’re going to have some _phenomenal_ sex. I hope you know that.”

“Well, I’ve heard quite a lot about your sex life in the last few years,” Rupert quips. “This feels like a natural progression.”

Anya laughs, delighted. “Rupert, that was a joke!” she informs him. “You made a joke! You _are_ doing better—” and then they’re kissing, and she hopes they never stop kissing, because in her long, winding life, she’s never, ever, ever been all-the-way happy like this.

**Author's Note:**

> i was not kidding. 2020 is all giles/anya all the time for me.


End file.
